Sometimes She Lets Me

by Tristan Taormino

  Again, the giggle.

  Now I was getting pissed. “Come on, Nat. I gotta get this frigging thing off so I can put a new parking brake cable on.” I was whining, and I knew it. I tried to sound calmer and more reasonable. “If I don’t put a new cable on, the parking brake won’t work. If the brake doesn’t work, it won’t pass inspec—” Cool fingers pushed aside my waffle-knit shirt and grappled with the button of my jeans.

  “Whoa!” Startled, I sat up. “Yah!” My head hit the frame. I dropped back, eyes streaming. “Fuck,” I whispered and spit a mouthful of rust and gunk bits, hands useless at my sides.

  More giggles. The hand worked my zipper down. I lay there, forehead throbbing. I heard a rustle and a little grunt as she knelt between my feet.

  Fingers pushed past my underwear and dove unerringly for my snatch, zinging my clit with what seemed like an electric charge.

  “Eeep!” I squeaked. Reflexively, I tried to close my legs. She shifted her weight and shoved them apart even harder. Her forefinger set up a hypnotic rhythm, insistent but not drubbing, teasing but effective. My clit hummed to its tune. My legs fell open, suddenly nerveless.

  “Eeeeeeeeeee,” I breathed. She laughed out loud. My head didn’t hurt at all.

  Fingers spread my lips and dipped into the flood of juice I was producing. Wet fingers slithered and danced between clit and hole. My hips bucked. “Ohhhh, jeeez!” I moaned.

  The hand yanked out of my pants. “Awww!” I protested, my heels shifting for purchase. I don’t know where I thought I was going.

  Her hands seized the waistband of my jeans. “Upsy-daisy,” a familiar voice said. Familiar, but Natalia? While my fuck-fogged brain tried to puzzle this out, my hips obliged her, all by themselves. Hands tugged my jeans and underwear down past my butt, past my thighs, past my knees, coming to rest at my ankles. I sighed, quivering with anticipation. A cool draft wafted over my thighs as I waited. And waited.

  “Natalia?”

  Stillness. Silence. “Uh, Nat?” I tried again nervously.

  “Whoa!” Hauled by the jeans around my ankles, my legs shot into the air. The creeper trundled backward. Under the car, my arms flailed for something to hang on to. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Hands scrabbling on the concrete, I tried to pull my legs down. My bare knees thumped against cold metal.

  “Relax,” that familiar voice said, “you’re bungeed to the door handle.”

  “Oh,” I said, as if that explained it. I craned my neck for a view. All I could see was a denim bell-bottom and the hem of a long crushed-velvet coat. I ransacked my mental inventory of Nat’s wardrobe and came up blank.

  The air in the garage was more than cool on my naked ass, but I was sweating in my long-john and filthy Carlux hoodie. Before I knew it warm breath had enveloped my pussy, and her mouth touched down like Soyuz docking Mir. “Na’zdorovye!” I shouted, inspired.

  Her tongue flicked back and forth and sluiced up and down my labia, darting into my hole like a fish. Her lips closed over my throbbing nub and sucked. Her teeth teased my clit hood and tugged at my short hairs. My legs bounced on their tether as I strained to meet her mouth, the creeper rocking and rolling ever so gently as I moved. I was weightless, trapped in a tin can, floating in space.

  My arms stretched out, Christlike, for ballast as I swayed. There was my wrench: the thought drifted through my brain. I panted and licked rust-gunk off my dry lips. Orgasm was inevitable; my lower half was on autopilot. Now that less of me was under the car, maybe I could see my benefactress? No. My own pale goose-pimply thighs blocked the side view. Straight down the middle, tucking my chin hard into my chest and scraping my forehead—“Ouch!”—against the car, only the top of a dark brown head was visible. Carefully, I drew my arms in.

  Her tongue moved faster. She stuffed it into my dripping hole, and I clenched and opened, rising to it, trying to draw the slithery coyness of it deeper.

  “Oh, yeah,” I moaned. In slow motion, my hands met on the silky bobbing top of her head. I twined my fingers in her hair. Her rather longish hair. Had it gotten that long since I’d seen her last? How long had it been? I’d seen Nat two weeks before. No, wait, it was only….

  Under her relentless tongue, the heat and pressure in my groin achieved supernova. Her thumbs dug into the soft flesh of my thighs as I came, bucking, a tiny lightship tossed in the solar wind.

  “Cosmic,” I breathed.

  Her giggles were warm, moist puffs against my engorged clit. I shivered.

  “Oh, Natalia,” I breathed, the last spasms twitching through my rapidly cooling flesh. “Natalia?” I unwrapped my fingers from her hair—gee, how long was it, anyway?—and groped toward her face like Helen Keller with a load on.

  “Ah, ah, ah!” she said, pulling away. Without thinking, I grabbed for her.

  “Aaaack!” The creeper teetered sideways. My head hit the car. My shoulders slid toward the floor. My arms, trapped between my pinioned legs, came back too slow to keep my sweaty ass from stuttering off the canted creeper onto icy concrete. My splayed thighs slapped against the car door and bounced maddeningly on the bungee.

  “Shit,” I muttered. A giggle tinkled out from across the dark garage, somewhere behind me. I didn’t dare open my eyes. I spit oily crud and called out, “Natalia? Wait a minute, honey. Help me get out of….”

  The garage door opened. And closed.

  I snaked a ten-inch breaker bar out from under my left asscheek and scooted sideways. Far and wee, a twangy male voice tunefully exhorted God to bless Texas. I thought of Houston, and Ground Control, and empathized with all those nameless astronauts who came down hard on dry land in dark little capsules and waited, waited, waited, to be set free.

  In the end, I toed off my sneakers and tugged numb feet and ankles out of their denim prison, my numb legs flopping uselessly back to earth. I thought about the glory days of Mercury and Apollo while the circulation gradually returned and my cold bare behind absorbed spilled transmission fluid and waste oil from the grimy garage floor. I thought of Natalia—it was Natalia, wasn’t it?—and unearthly bliss and my own shocking touchdown on the unforgiving planet.

  But what can I do? I am a fool in love, or even in lust, as I suspected it might boil down to. I called Natalia after work the next day. She’d be happy to meet me at Taco Villa for “tapas, or maybe something more?” She breathed into the phone, “I just love eating South-of-the-Border, don’t you?”

  It took three-quarters of an hour to get the crud out from under my nails. She was waiting at the bar when I finally got there, nursing the last inch of a Corona and bobbing her head to Hank, Jr., on the jukebox.

  I stopped dead in my tracks.

  “Natalia,” I finally managed as she bounced up to give me a hug, “you got a haircut.”

  “Yes, this afternoon,” she whirled and patted her hardlylonger-than-a-crewcut locks. “Do you like it?”

  “Ah, sure,” I began faintly, until the look on her face told me I was about to make a horrible mistake, “yes, I love it. It’s terrific. Absolutely gorgeous.”

  She took my arm as the waitress led us to a booth in the back. In the dark. My unruly imagination slipped the surly bonds of earth, and I wondered what I would do if she slid down the padded vinyl bench and disappeared beneath the table.

  She ordered a Corona for both of us. “Upsy-daisy,” I murmured, remembering.

  “I beg your pardon?” She cocked her head, smiling the kind of smile no virgin had a right to.

  Our drinks arrived at something approaching the speed of light.

  “Na’zdorovye!” She tipped her bottle toward me. I sprayed beer across the table.

  She graciously helped me mop up the mess and even signaled the waitress for more napkins. Already as mortified as I could be, I forged ahead, boldly going where I fervently hoped no man had gone before.

  “Natalia,” I began, “did you by any chance stop by my house yesterday? While I was, uh…” I paused, feeling my ears turning hot, “…working on the car
?”

  “Did I ever tell you, darling,” she reached for my hand and gazed deeply, earnestly, into my eyes, only the faintest hint of amusement playing on her lips, “that my father was a member of the KGB?”

  “No,” I answered weakly, “I didn’t know.”

  “He was assigned to Martina Navratilova. When she defected, so did he. What else could he do?”

  “Really.” Her fingers were stroking my palm.

  “So, you see,” she smiled, “secrets run in my family.” Her toe nudged my ankle. My heart threatened to achieve escape velocity.

  Appearing out of nowhere, the waitress hovered over our table, her pad at the ready.

  “We’ll have the number five combo, and the number three,” Natalia told her, “and the number six as well, hmm?” She looked at me for confirmation. I licked my lips. She took that as a yes. “Unless you’d rather….” She squeezed my hand and cut a look at the exit.

  “Could we get that order,” I asked the waitress, “to go?”

  “Pre-par-ing for takeout…” she enunciated as she wrote.

  Time is relative; you don’t need a Grand Unified Theory to know that. Several billion years later, we loaded our steaming cartons of enchiladas and chimichangas into the Baby’s backseat, where they were swiftly forgotten in our warp speed race across the galaxy to my bedroom. We left a trail of clothing through the house behind us, planetary detritus forming an asteroid field in our wake. I never found out for sure if it was Natalia’s mouth I rendezvoused with in the lightless depths of my garage, and I don’t know if pistoning fingers and slick thighs actually convert matter into energy. Minutes and seconds can’t measure the rate of propulsion of a body rocketing toward orgasm. But this one thing is immutable physical law: when the Big Bang happens, time stops.

  Einstein didn’t know the half of it.

  YOU CAN WRITE A STORY ABOUT IT

  Jera Star

  1.

  I wait to meet you on the porch, your silver rollerblades shining all the way down the street. I finger the chain around my neck as you approach. We are still awkward at first on these casual rendezvous we’ve been having. You’re used to fucking friends. I’m used to fucking strangers. We are neither friends nor strangers. I’m a pink-haired hippie bi chick. You’re a crew-cut wannabe-cop boy dyke. Sometimes, we fuck.

  “Hey, T,” I say.

  You’ve come over after watching that movie you love with the character named Troy in it. Where you got your boy name, the one you just told me about today. I haven’t yet called you by it.

  “Yo, what’s up?” you ask. I ignore your question. I’m distracted because you’re wearing a red baseball cap backward—my weakness. You sit down beside me on the porch to take off your blades. “Oh, I saw a shooting star on the way here,” you tell me, excitement in your voice. You remind me of a little kid and I find it endearing. A nice change from your usual cocky, obnoxious talk. We sit for a while and talk about the stars. Then I bring you inside. You swagger up the stairs to my apartment. Follow me down the hall to the couch in the spare room.

  “How was your day?” I ask.

  This time you ignore my question. Instead you say, “You have strong hands.” I know you are trying to move things along to what we both really want to be doing. But still, it’s one of the few compliments you have ever and will ever (I realize later) offer me. I relish it. And take your bait.

  “You want a massage?”

  You sit on the floor in front of the couch. I start massaging your shoulders through your clothes. After a minute, you bring out a little container of strawberry massage oil from your pocket. I laugh, getting the point. I take off your shirt. Drip the oil onto your back. You say it feels like lube: cold and hot. I massage again, starting at your neck. Mold your skin. Flex my fingers around your muscles. Shoulders, upper arms. Move my hands in front to your pecs. Careful to avoid your breasts. I stretch your arms up and lay them back down against your sides. Touch my fingers to your lower spine, one of your erogenous zones. Stay there for a while, applying pressure. Playing. You cut right to the chase.

  “So, Sue, tell me about your first kiss.” You want to get at my fantasies. This is what we do for each other. I like the question.

  “It felt so good I thought I could go on kissing him for hours. But then later, behind the portable, after school, he said, ‘What do you want to do to me?’ I didn’t want to do anything to him. I wanted him to do things to me. I wanted him to lick my whole body. All the way from mouth to clit.”

  “What else?” you ask as I work on your shoulder muscles.

  “Hmm, I was too shy to tell him what I wanted. So we just kissed some more,” I answer, absorbed in my hands pushing into your back. “Eventually I told him I didn’t want to be monogamous and he didn’t like that.” You laugh, not sure about it yourself.

  “Tell me, Sue, what you want me to do to you. Who, what, where you want me to be.”

  I smile.

  You try and grab my tits and I love it. You try and tickle me and I don’t like it. We laugh as you try to tickle me and I tell you to stop.

  “Don’t,” I say.

  “Don’t what?” you say, grabbing my tits again, putting your hands in my pants. “Don’t, Boy-T? Don’t, Daddy? Don’t, Troy? Don’t touch my tits? Don’t touch my clit? Don’t make me come? Huh? Don’t what?” I squirm. Hot, fucking hot.

  “Daddy,” I moan, wanting your hand on my clit. “Daddy, please.” I squirm more as you fondle me, feel me, make my clit swell. You take your hand away.

  I whine, hurt, sad. “Daddy, please. Come on, Daddy. Give me. Give me, please. Daddy, please.”

  You give in and give me some more. Turn me over on my stomach. I moan and cry with the sensations in my cunt. Your hand still fingers my clit. I want more, you pull your fingers away. I whine.

  “Oh, poor baby,” you say. “What’s wrong? Is there something wrong, baby?”

  “Please, Daddy.” I’m close to crying. You put your fingers back.

  “There you go, baby. Come on. You’re a good girl.” You move your finger faster on my clit. I moan and say, “Please, Daddy‚” again and come madly, sweetly, sadly in your arms.

  “Do you love me?” you ask.

  “Yes, Daddy, I love you.”

  I shed some tears. We are both quiet.

  Finally I say, “And you, T, what do you want me to do, be for you?”

  I straddle you. Take off my shirt. Kiss you. Take off my bra while you watch. Take off your jeans and boxer briefs and spread your legs. Move down your body to your belly. You feel vulnerable with it exposed, I know. I linger there, my eyes on you. My tongue licking around your belly button. I start fingering your clit slowly, gently.

  “Do you do this to all the boys?” you ask.

  “Just my slave-boys,” I say. You make small moans. I stop playing with you. Ask, “Were you a good boy today?”

  “I hope so,” you answer. You always make me laugh.

  “You think you deserve this?” I ask.

  “Yes, Mistress,” you moan as I push one finger inside your cunt.

  “Why do you think you deserve this?” I play with your clit some more.

  “Because it feels so good.” You start humping my finger. I bend down to kiss you and just when you’re ready for it, I pull away. You try to bring my lips to yours again. I don’t let you.

  “Ah, Boy-T wants to kiss me, does he?” I say to you, holding your arms above your head.

  You close your eyes. “Uh-huh,” you say, still humping.

  “Now why would I want to let him do that?”

  “You know you want it,” you say, impatient. You shake your hands out of my grasp. Pull me down against you again. I let my tongue brush your lips. Then I grab your hands and put them above your head one more time. You like it.

  “Slave-boys don’t kiss without asking,” I say. “I want Boy-T to learn how to be a gentleman.” You smile and grab my boob real quick. Cocky, as usual.

  “Ask nicely
,” I tell you, speeding up my hand on your clit.

  “Oh, fuck.”

  “I said ask nicely.” I push two fingers in your cunt. You clutch my arm.

  “Kiss me, damn it,” you say as I play with your clit and move my fingers in and out of you.

  “What was that?” I ask. I start fucking your wet cunt, pushing my fingers deep. My thumb on your clit. You’re groaning with each thrust. Keep trying to grab me, pull me to you. I keep pushing you down. Keep thrusting.

  “Please,” you moan, as your hips rise, try to push my fingers deeper into you with each thrust.

  “Please what?”

  “Please, please, kiss me, please.” You pant between words.

  “Ah, that’s a good boy,” I say. I let go of your arms above your head. You yank me down on top of you, cover my mouth with yours, groan and swear as I fuck you. You come smooth and heavy. Your moans vibrate through me.

  2.

  It’s been a few weeks since our last encounter. Another fight. They keep happening. Our fights remind me of my best friend at ten. How we used to touch tongues in the corner of the schoolyard, get mad, and not talk to each other for weeks at a time, then one day start touching tongues again.

  You call and ask me to come over. You have something you want to show me. When I hear your obnoxious laughing voice on the phone asking for me, I forget why I was so mad at you.

  You come over to show off your new boy clothes. You say you really feel like a guy in them. Shirt and vest. I tell you that you look hot because I know you want to hear it. You tell me, like it’s not a big deal, that I’m the only person you’ve mentioned all this boy stuff to. I’m surprised. Flattered. I offer to take pictures of you exploring your guy self. You refuse. But I persist and get you. Sitting on the couch, legs spread, taking up space; the rapper look, you call it. Your arm bent, scratching your chin; intellectual. Standing, doing a muscle pose; jock. This is all leading up to one thing, only I don’t know it.

  You want to go out together to the local straight slutty bar. We’ve talked about it before. I haven’t been since I was in high school. Avoided it since I came out. But I love the idea. I put on lipstick for the first time in ages. Tight jeans and a skinny-strap tank top. For me, this is a performance. Reclaiming sixteen with more power than I ever felt I had then. I know for you, this is it.